


Steady, Unchanging

by eyra



Series: Steady, Unchanging [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Blood Drinking, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, POV First Person, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Periods, Trans Character, Trans Simon, Watford Eighth Year, boys being soft, vampire stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 11:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21252401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyra/pseuds/eyra
Summary: “Simon,” I plead softly, tugging gently at his wrist, but he doesn’t come to me. I can smell smoke; he’s all cinders and ash. He’s worried. He’s worried that something’s wrong, that I don’t want him. That I’ve realised this was never a good idea and the thing with the paper cut was a monumental mistake and we need to stop it. And whilst that’s probably true, and whilst this probably will end in flames, that’s not why we can’t do it tonight, and I feel my heart cleave in two because I know what’s coming next.





	Steady, Unchanging

**Author's Note:**

> This fic exists because I’m on my period and I’m feeling sorry for myself and I wanted the boys being soft to each other. That’s literally it.
> 
> Just a heads up: this story involves a trans man getting a period. There's nothing graphic, but if that might be a trigger for you, please tread carefully!

Simon stretches his arms above his head as he stands beside my bed, yawning loudly. He’s so showy. The two thin, half-moon scars on his chest look pearlescent in the soft moonlight spilling through the narrow window, and I tut good-naturedly as I reach up to tug on his hand, pulling him down to me under the covers. He comes easily, grinning at me through the darkness before leaning in for a long, slow kiss. I hear him sigh out contentedly through his nose, one warm hand running teasingly up my side, slipping under my nightshirt and dragging a quiet, answering sigh from me.

We kiss lazily for what might be hours, Simon’s leg at some point edging between mine and pressing upwards, gently. I hold my breath to steady myself when he rolls his head back and draws me into the crook of his neck, and then he pulls away, turning under the covers to reach for the drawer in my nightstand. I know exactly what he’s doing.

I stop him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Not tonight,” I say softly, coaxing him back down into the bed.

He blinks, brows knitted together in confusion.

“Why not?” he murmurs.

“I don’t need it tonight.”

“You never _need_ it,” he says, shuffling back under the covers and studying me in the dim light. It’s true; I can – and did for many years – absolutely get by without it and still be top of the class, fastest on the team, as sharp as a whip. I don’t _need_ it; I’ve never _needed_ it. But ever since that night at the start of the new school year when Simon got a paper cut on his Greek essay and, on noticing me staring and the sudden, inescapable heightened tension in our room, tentatively offered me his index finger with three small drops of bright-red blood pooling from the tiny slit below his knuckle, I’ve _wanted_ it. I’ve wanted it for the pleasure it seemed to bring the both of us when I drew his finger into my mouth and suckled gently, his eyes burning into mine, and for the rush as I feel his blood, _Simon’s blood_, trickle through my whole body, warming me like whisky, making an already sharp world halcyon and limitless. The mornings after I’ve fed from Simon, I feel unstoppable. No lesson is too challenging, no match too tiring; inspiration floods me from all directions, and it’s like I’m on speed. Simon says I’m nicer to be around, too, and I can’t deny him that, knowing too well what a fucking nightmare I can be to him when I haven’t fed at all. I never feed _only_ from him, though. That’s too dangerous, too cavalier even for Simon, who was the one who kept relentlessly pushing for this despite my supposed better judgement. Who kept “accidentally” hurting himself whenever he thought I was flagging or tired or being too much of a dick.

I’m not sure when we went from paper cuts to Simon keeping a penknife in the drawer of my nightstand, but at some point this term it’s become pure, unspoken routine, every few nights, for Simon to twist in my arms and reach for the small blade before we drift off. It’s usually the inside of his wrist, carefully, on one side or the other of the thick, blue vein there. Sometimes it’s the pad of his thumb, because Simon knows exactly where that leads, when he slides the digit between my lips and strokes my hair with his other hand as I suckle greedily. I’m never _not_ turned on by feeding from him – I think we both knew that would be the case before we even started this – but lapping at his thumb like that always sends a rush of heat and pressure directly between my legs, and Simon knows better than to offer me that on a school night because he knows it’ll be hours before we’re both sated enough to sleep. Nicks to the inner thigh are _his_ kryptonite; I made the cuts myself, the first time, so small and shallow, but the moan that escaped him when I latched on and sucked could’ve woken the whole school.

It’s usually the wrist, though, and when Simon settles back into bed I let my thumb start brushing softly over his pulse point there, and I notice it’s a little faster than usual. But we’re still not doing this tonight.

I’ve got my eyes closed, but I know he’s still looking at me with curious suspicion. I’ve never refused this; in the months since we started doing this, I’ve never once told him no, and I can feel a faint flush starting to spread its way up my chest as he studies me. I’m not sure he’s going to let me get away with this without having a conversation I’m not confident I’m qualified to have with him, and the thought makes me twitchy.

“Why not tonight?” he whispers, his voice cautious.

I swallow, hard.

“Just… not tonight. It’s not a good idea tonight.”

He pulls back a little under the covers, and I open my eyes to see him frowning down at me. There’s a tense set to his jaw, and I really don’t know how to do this without making it worse. I give him a hopefully reassuring smile, still running my thumb gently over his wrist, and shake my head.

“Why not?” he demands.

He’s like a dog with a bloody bone, sometimes.

“_Simon_,” I plead softly, tugging gently at his wrist, but he doesn’t come to me. I can smell smoke; he’s all cinders and ash. He’s worried. He’s worried that something’s wrong, that I don’t want him. That I’ve realised this was never a good idea and the thing with the paper cut was a monumental mistake and we need to stop it. And whilst that’s probably true, and whilst this probably will end in flames, that’s not why we can’t do it tonight, and I feel my heart cleave in two because I _know_ what’s coming next.

“Baz,” Simon says, and he’s not whispering anymore. “Why not tonight?”

There’s a long silence, and I let my eyes fall closed. Like a coward, I close them. I keep stroking over his pulse point, and I feel it quicken beneath my thumb.

“Because you’re getting your period tomorrow, darling.”

Simon freezes. I chance looking up at him, and I meet his eyes as he stares down at me in abject confusion.

“What?” he says, but his voice is flat, monotone. I know, from that alone, that he knows I’m right, and my heart shatters for him. I push myself up on one elbow so our faces are level, letting my other hand come up to rest gently on the side of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, leaning in to place a chaste kiss on his cheek. He’s staring right past me, unseeing. “I’m sorry, love.”

Simon pulls in a sharp breath, lurching away from me under the covers. He looks horrified, panic-stricken, and I see to my dismay that his eyes have turned glassy in the dim light of the room.

“You can _tell?_” he whispers, his voice unsteady. He’s mortified, and I hate myself for needing to have this conversation with him in the first place.

I nod, hesitantly.

“Yes,” I say quietly, reaching carefully for his hand. He lets me take it, but he still won’t look at me. “I’m sorry.”

I’ve always been able to tell. Even without the vampire stuff, I’m fairly confident I’d be able to tell. It doesn’t happen often – it hasn’t happened in at least a year – but since Third Year I’ve known acutely a handful of occasions where Simon has suddenly and violently plunged into a dark mood, refusing to eat, refusing to leave his bed even for lessons. It only ever lasts a couple of days, and when we were younger I had assumed that he really was ill, or he’d just had enough of me and decided sleep was the easiest way to avoid me for a bit. But eventually it had clicked; the tinny, metallic air surrounding him, always a day before the fatigue and tetchiness came. Why I so often saw Snow sneaking around the infirmary at random times. Why he had seemed so excited on that very first day, when the Crucible had placed us together and he’d grinned at me like he couldn’t quite believe his luck. At the time I’d assumed he was just mental, but in hindsight the relief he felt from being roomed with another boy must’ve been immense, and the thought of an eleven-year-old Simon fretting about what had seemed like such a straightforward thing to the rest of us never fails to make my chest feel achingly tight.

It had all fallen into place, finally, in the autumn of Seventh Year when Simon had simply disappeared, in the middle of the term, for three whole weeks. I hadn’t asked – because I wasn’t supposed to care where he went or what he got up to – but when he returned one Sunday night I could smell hospitals on him, and I didn’t miss the way he carried himself so carefully, taking an agonisingly long time to do just about anything that wasn’t sitting propped up in his bed, reading. Then I noticed the other things, like how he started wearing a t-shirt to sleep in rather than his usual hoodie – which can never have been comfortable, since Simon runs hot, always – and how eventually he no longer disappeared behind a locked bathroom door to get changed, and would sit on his bed – always facing away from me, still – as he tugged off his school tie and shrugged out of his shirt.

He’d told me about it all, about himself, the night after he first kissed me. It was as if he felt he owed it to me (he didn’t), or that he’d somehow lied to me (he hadn’t), or like he thought it might change this thing between us (it wouldn't; it couldn't). I held him afterwards – the first time I’d done that, with anyone – and I didn’t tell him that I already knew.

But even before I understood what it was, and why it came, I’ve been able to tell when this is coming, and when it’s here. I know he hates it, and refusing him anything is hard at the best of the times but especially now, when he looks ready to shatter; I’d give him anything, always, but I know – and have known, since we added this new facet to whatever it is we’re doing – that if and when this happened, I wouldn’t allow myself to further weaken him. It’s the pure physiology of it; too much blood loss is a bad thing, and I simply won’t risk it with him.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, giving his hand a squeeze on top of the sheets. “I just don’t think we should do that when you’re already… when you’re…”

I am fucking this up, royally, the increasingly horrified expression on Simon’s stricken face testament to my ineptitude as he wrenches his hand from mine and makes to get out of my bed, away from me, his breath coming in fast, unsteady gasps.

“Hey, no no no,” I say hurriedly, panicking myself now as I reach quickly for his hand again and tug him back towards me. “Come on, come here.”

He still won’t let himself be pulled closer, but he at least stops trying to leave. He’s frozen there, on the side of my bed, one foot already on the floor. He’s staring resolutely at a spot on the other side of the room, his jaw a harsh line as he breaths unsteadily through his nose.

“Have you always been able to tell?” he whispers. His voice is as fragile as I’ve ever heard it.

I pause, swallowing hard.

“Yes,” I murmur, and he lets out a harsh, unsteady breath, and I have no doubt now that he’s crying. And it breaks my heart all over again.

“Come here,” I say softly, sitting up properly in bed and gently but firmly pulling him back to me. To my relief, he comes now, his eyes fixed firmly on a point somewhere near my midriff. I cradle his face in both my hands, coaxing his gaze upwards. “It’s ok, darling,” I whisper, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to his cheek, wet with salty tears. “It’s ok.”

He comes to me in earnest, then, letting his breath tumble out with a shaky exhale as he leans in to press his forehead to my shoulder. I wrap my arms around him, tight, pressing insistent kisses into his sandy curls as he tries to calm himself. I can tell he’s trying to match me breath for breath. Merlin, I love this boy.

We sit like that for a few moments, and I whisper things I later won’t remember to him, drawing him even closer to me and rubbing gentle, steady circles into his lower back. At length he pulls back, slowly, and when he’s wiped his face roughly with his shaking hands he finally looks up at me. 

“I hate it,” he whispers, his eyes still shining with unshed tears.

“I know,” I say softly, and God, I wish I could do more.

He lets himself be coaxed back down under the covers then, sniffling quietly, and I wrap myself around him entirely, tucking his head beneath my chin and pulling him close, his bare chest flush against my nightshirt. I keep up my whispering to him; soft things, soothing things. I’m really not sure what I’m saying, but it seems to help, as I feel him start to sag against me and his breathing, finally, seems steadier. I lose track of time, of how long we lay there, and I’m moments from sleep when I feel him start to pull away again under the sheets, moving to climb out of bed.

“Simon?” I whisper, and I watch him falter.

“I’ll be back,” he says without looking at me, slipping out of the covers and padding across the room. He kneels, reaching under his own bed and tugging out a small washbag, before he hurries into the bathroom. The bolt slides across the door, before – and I wish, now more than ever, that my hearing wasn’t as sharp as it is because Merlin, he deserves some privacy – the zipper is pulled on his little washbag and there’s a soft, crinkling sound. I hear the tap run, and then he’s coming back out into the room and still avoiding looking at me as he stuffs the bag back under his bed, out of sight. He comes back over to my bed, and my heart aches when he seems to hesitate.

“Come on, love,” I say, giving him no time to doubt this, lifting the blanket for him to slip back under. He does, to my relief, and he lets me pull him back into my arms, holding him close to rub slow, soothing circles down his back until, at length, we drift off together.

***

I wake early to a sharp, metallic tang in the room. Simon’s still here, snoozing softly in my arms, his curls sticking alarmingly out at all angles as they do, to my delight, every morning. There’s a slight, uncomfortable pinch between his eyebrows, and I make a mental note to slip into the infirmary and snag some co-codomol or something before lessons. I’m sure there’s a spell, but I don’t trust myself with the biology of it, and Simon hates having magic used on him anyway.

He stirs, his frown deepening as he blinks his eyes open and looks sleepily up at me. I know he’s going to panic as soon as he remembers, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to give him the chance. I smile at him, and press a kiss to his slightly parted lips; he’s always got horrible morning breath, but that’s fine. That’s more than fine today.

“Morning,” I say softly, peppering more kisses on his sleep-rumpled face.

He mumbles something, and then slowly moves to pull away. I let him go this time. He perches on the edge of the bed, and I don’t miss the way he quickly glances down at the sheets where he’s just lain. But it’s fine; it’s all fine.

He looks back at me over his shoulder, studying me for a long moment. I think I hold my breath.

“You really don’t mind?” he says quietly.

I shake my head.

“I really don’t.”

He nods, more to himself than anything, I think.

“And are you…” he breaks off, and swallows hard. I can see a slight flush creeping up his neck onto his cheeks. He ducks his head and glances back at me again. “Are you ok to be around me? When I’m like this?”

I watch him. _Am_ I ok to be around him? I have been before, every time it’s happened since Third Year, and it’s never been too much of a problem. It’s _there_, definitely. I can’t not notice it, and I can’t pretend that it’s not an effort for me to try to not react to it. It’s different, undeniably; it’s not as if Simon’s just opened a vein and bled fresh blood all over my desk right in front of me. I’ve always managed, but then, I think, we’ve never been sharing a bed before, and I’ve never slept with him in my arms, and my sheets have never smelled like him. And it’s still _blood_.

I nod. I want desperately to reassure him.

“I think so.”

Simon looks unconvinced.

“You think so?”

“Yes...” I hesitate, looking down at the sheets, and now it’s me who can’t meet his eyes. But this isn’t about me, and this isn’t happening to me; it’s happening to him, and he hates it, and I need him to know that this is ok, that we can do this. So I smile, and nod again. “Yes,” I say, and there’s more conviction in it this time. “But do you still have your cross?”

He tilts his head, frowning at me in confusion. He hasn’t worn his cross in months; certainly not since we started sharing a bed at the start of the summer, and I haven’t even seen it since the first time he asked me to feed off him.

“It’s somewhere, yeah.”

“Ok,” I nod, battling down my embarrassment over having to ask this of him. “Maybe wear it, for a couple of days? For me?”

It seems to click into place for him then, and he nods silently, offering me a small smile.

“Ok.”

Simon declines to join me for breakfast, which feels so wrong and off-balance that I, mortifyingly, find my throat a little tight when I kiss him goodbye and slip out of our room. I bring him back a plate of scones anyway, and some painkillers from the infirmary, and when I return in record time I find him showered, changed, and tucked back under the covers in my bed, snoozing peacefully. I allow myself a moment to press a gentle kiss to his forehead, and try not to think about how soft this boy and this whole thing have made me when I card my fingers through his still-damp hair. He’s still in bed when I come back to check on him after morning lessons, but there’s definitely one less scone on the plate on my bedside table.

The afternoon seems to drag by slower than usual, the lectures drifting nebulously somewhere over my head and I hurry back to our room the moment the last bell goes, swinging by the dining hall to charm some sandwiches out of the kitchen staff ahead of dinner. I open the door just as Simon is coming out of the bathroom, and his eyes widen in panic when he sees me.

“Are you ok?” I say, taking in his worried expression. He glances nervously at my bed, and I follow his gaze; the sheets have all been stripped.

_Oh._

I let out a breath, and cross the room to go to him, setting the plate of sandwiches down on my desk. I can feel the tension thrumming through his body when I pull him into my arms.

“It’s ok,” I say quietly, bringing one hand up to run gently through his soft curls. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, his voice thick.

I shush him, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his head.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say again. “I’ll sort it.”

He sniffs, pulling back and wiping at his face. He’s wearing his cross like I asked him to, bless him, and he chews on his lip distractedly until he spots the plate of sandwiches.

“All yours,” I smile, nudging him towards them. He grabs the whole plate, and perches down on the side of his own bed as he tucks in. I leave him to his dinner, quietly gathering up the sheets from the floor and slipping into the bathroom to quickly spell them clean. They come up white again easily; no harm done.

He’s still perched on his bed when I go back in, chewing on a roast beef sandwich. I watch him silently from across the room; he looks so small, suddenly, so unsure of himself. It’s a stark contrast to his usual blundering confidence and complete lack of inhibition, and it’s almost painful to see, but God if I don’t adore him even more for it. To everyone else, he’s already an open book; no filter, no thinking, all action and heroics, but I’ve been lucky enough to learn, over the years, that Simon Snow has more facets than a cut diamond, and there are few who get to witness the whole; the fragile sides, the softer sides, the quiet courage and the parts that he sometimes needs help holding together. And it’s my absolute privilege to be the one to do that now.

I join him on his bed, taking the cheese and pickle he offers me and nibbling carefully on the corner. I nudge him with my shoulder as he tucks into another sandwich.

“Love you,” I murmur.

He smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading - comments are always hugely appreciated! x


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